The Blonds have More Fun Affair
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: And you did say you liked blonds." Caution - here there be mild slash


"And besides, you did say you liked blondes."

Napoleon Solo glanced up into the blue eyes of his partner and stood, tearing off his jacket in the process. Fists up, he was ready to deal with a clear cut case of insubordination, at least to his way of thinking.

It looked as though Illya was more than spoiling for a fight and it was only Lavinia's intervention that stopped them at all.

"Hold it," she demanded, hands braced to keep them apart. "You're two grown men, not little boys in a school yard. Mr. Solo, I'm surprised at you."

"Yes, Napoleon," Illya agreed, grinning widely until Lavinia swung around to face him.

"As for you," she started.

"Hadn't you better get started, Lavinia?" Illya interrupted. "The roads are going to be bad as it is."

"Not until you two promise not to do violence to one another."

"Okay, no violence." Napoleon held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Thank you." Lavinia smiled, picking up her gloves and purse. "That's better. Now, if you will excuse me..."

"Lavinia, if you're ever in New York, look us up."

"We're under 'Spies' in the Yellow Pages," Illya quipped, still keeping a good distance from Solo.

"How can we thank you for all your help?" Solo ignored the Russian and offered his arm to the woman.

"You've already made this the experience of a lifetime for me. The kids will never believe me."

"They might. Some people believe anything," Illya murmured casting a quick glance in Napoleon's direction and even Lavinia smiled. "Have a good time in Paris and don't talk to any blondes." He took her hand and bowed low to it, nearly brushing it with his lips.

She laughed and turned back to a smoldering Solo. "As for you, Mr. Solo..."

"I know, do not disturb." He kissed her cheek gently. "Stay well, Lavinia."

She walked out the door with a final wave of her hand and Solo turned to his partner.

"You ready?"

"If you truly feel it is necessary." Illya gestured in an 'after you' movement.

Once again, Solo squared off. "Blondes, huh?" He launched himself at the slender Russian, who anticipated the charge and went with it.

While Napoleon was angry, he really didn't want to hurt his partner...too much. He kept most of his fighting to mere wrestling, grownup rough housing.

Somehow, through a series of moves that Napoleon didn't even know the names of, he got a knee up between Kuryakin's thighs and brought it to within scant inches of an extremely painful resting place.

Illya squirmed, determined not to let the darkhaired agent get the better of him, but his hands were pinned above his head and Napoleon's knee was resting firmly against his groin. Deciding that surrender was indeed the better part of valor, he lay still, panting to catch his breath.

"Give up," Napoleon demanded, leaning closer enough to feel the man's breath on his face.

Illya dropped his eyes. "Only until I can get the upper hand."

Abruptly, Napoleon became aware of a stirring, a desire to do more than just wrestle with his partner. Suddenly embarrassed about the way he straddled Illya, Napoleon released his hold on Illya, but to his amazement, the Russian didn't move except to lower his arms.

"You okay?" Illya asked, obviously not concerned with Napoleon's proximity or the location of that traitorous knee.

"I think so." Napoleon moved his leg, still staring into Illya's face.

"Thank you. You can get up now, Napoleon. Unless there's something else you wish to discuss."

"Right." Solo rose, still regarding the man closely. "**Was **there anything else?"

Illya stood, still too close for Napoleon's comfort, and blue eyes searched his face carefully, as if attempting to gauge… something.

Suddenly, Solo's communicator sounded, the moment passed and they were two agents again.

****

That memory was triggered again years later, quite abruptly. Napoleon had offered to entertain Cricket with a few of his stories from his javelin throwing years. When made to choose between him and Mr. Waverly, she had, of course, picked the older man, leaving behind a disappointed CEA.

"I'll listen to your stories...anytime." Illya delivered this with a velvet purr to his voice and if he hadn't known better Solo would have sworn that the Russian was flirting with him.

Unsure of how to react, Napoleon settled for a glare, which Illya returned while patting the cushion beside him.

"Be careful, Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon warned, conflicting emotions welling up too close to the surface.

"Oh, I intend to be very, very careful, Mr. Solo." The blue eyes were half closed and Napoleon was filled with an urge to grab the man and hold him close, to kiss him and settle this matter once and for all.

However, he paused just one second too long and the moment was again stolen away from him by Mr. Waverly's sudden reentrance.

But this time, Napoleon didn't forget all about it. Instead, in the days after, it fueled memories of the past few years, his increasing preference of Illya's company to that of his numerous women friends. Illya didn't giggle or press for petty conversation. The Russian often followed Napoleon's train of thought with a minimum of effort, something born out a growing closeness between them. Up to this point, Solo had merely considered it friendship, but was it more?

The idea rocked Napoleon whenever he thought of it. A dozen times or more, Illya had behaved exactly the same as he had with Cricket, if not as blatantly. There was no mistaking the message that Illya was broadcasting – he was definitely interested in Napoleon.

Napoleon sat back in his chair and sighed, still unsure about it all. He knew Illya never kept a steady girlfriend or entertained women on a regular basis. In fact, the Russian had very few close friends at all, mostly just Napoleon. It was as though he'd made up his mind and was patiently waiting for Solo to see the light.

It was then that the agent came to grips with the emotional butterflies in his stomach. With a firm set of his shoulders, he rose and pulled on a jacket, forgetting about his drink, the time, everything.

The drive to Brooklyn Heights was an exercise in frustration, every red light, every slow poke driver, an agonizing test of his patience.

Then, suddenly, he was there, standing before a familiar door, not pausing for fear that common sense might suddenly rear its head and send him scurrying away.

He knocked once, twice, three times before a sleepy voice, murmured, "Yes?"

"Illya, it's me. Open up."

The door cracked open, cautiously, at first, until the Russian ascertained the validity of his guest.

"Napoleon, it's three a.m.," the voice slurred, the eyes barely open. "What do you want?"

"You." And Solo shut the door firmly behind him.

****

The memory crawled back to Napoleon Solo and he chuckled, drawing a grumble from the mound beside him. "Good God, are you already awake?"

Napoleon readjusted and settled a sleep-drunk Illya upon his chest. "In more ways than one." Napoleon gave Illya a purposeful nudge with his hip, brushing his erection against his partner's hip.

"After all these years and last night? You are incorrigible, Solo."

"Add insatiable and you've got a deal." Napoleon didn't make any additional demands upon the man, knowing that Illya would take the next step if sex was agreeable with him. "You do that to me. I never have enough of you."

"What were you laughing about?" Illya was more awake now, one hand brushing at the sparse graying hairs on Napoleon's chest, a leg brought up for Napoleon to rub against, signaling Illya's readiness for whatever his partner and long-time lover wanted to dish out.

"Just remembering what you said once."

"What?"

"You're right, I do prefer blonds."


End file.
